now and then

VI. Lovesong, Part One

May 8, 1993

Eddie Kaspbrak holds the tape in the palms of his two hands.

He doesn't know whether he should play it.

Eddie squints; frowns; tilts his head at it. Runs his thumb over the faded marker that reads, simply: "Eds". A very small voice in his head is worried the tape might self-destruct, like in those spy shows his mom would sometimes watch. Or come alive and bite him.

Richie would think that was stupid, and that Eddie was being a baby.

Most of the time, when Richie handed him a tape to listen to, they were not good. Or—well, they probably were. But the music ended up not really being Eddie's thing.

He still remembered that time Richie had given him a Van Halen cassette ("Their lead guitarist's name is Eddie—that's your name!"). Eddie had thought the gesture was very special and exciting, until he had popped it in his boombox that Wednesday night around dinner time.

("—PANAMA! PANAMA-A! PANAM—"

Eddie had jumped off his bed, scrambling for the eject button as the sound had nearly blown out his speakers, his eardrums, and had shaken the entire floor. He tripped on his bedpost though, and knocked his piggy bank off his dresser in his haste, and one misfortune after another had the tape still playing at full blast when his mom screamed up from downstairs:

"Eddie! Eddie-bear, turn that off! What God awful noise is that? Turn it off this—")

He had handed it back to Richie the next day, face red and frowning, with a look that just said "no".

But this tape is different, Eddie thinks. It was made for him.

Also, tonight, his mom was not home. She had gone to Augusta to visit with her sisters. She had been planning the trip for many weeks, and was frustrated that Eddie had not gone with her—but he had outright refused. It had earned him a month of grounding at first. Then, he had batted his eyes at her, fed her some lie about schoolwork and finals, and she had caved. He mentioned nothing about prom.

And for a moment, Eddie had won a great victory against her. His mother was gone, and he had the house to himself for prom weekend, and neither he nor Richie had made any plans to go. They could come to Eddie's place and hang out, instead. They could be alone.

But that was before. Before Richie had said the name, "Bethany Kowalski", and ruined everything.

Eddie tries not to think about where Richie could be with her right now. If he thought too much about it, it would make him cry, and he wasn't going to do that. Besides, he knew Richie didn't like Bethany anyway. He was just pretending. He wouldn't go do anything with her. Not after their fight on the kissing bridge that had left him feeling so miserable. Not after he gave Eddie the tape. Richie wouldn't do that.

The tired way in which Richie had spat at him on the bridge had filled Eddie with instant regret. He shouldn't have said those things. He shouldn't have been so cruel. Not when Richie, in three months, would be...

But Richie just made him so mad sometimes. Mad because Richie just didn't get it —he never did. No matter what Eddie did to get his attention—he could be jumping up and down, screaming, doing cartwheels—Richie still wouldn't budge.

He had felt the force of the shove when Richie had pushed the tape into his chest—but he had also felt the brief graze of Richie's fingertips against his arm as he had let go of it. Richie probably hadn't thought anything of it—hadn't cared—but Eddie had. It felt so wonderful—so, so wonderful—the graze and the tape in his hands—that just for a second, Eddie had forgotten all about Bethany Kowalski, or Portland, Oregon, or the way Richie had hardly even looked at him all night, and didn't even really seem to care that he was moving in August, and would never see Eddie again.